


Carnivore

by Reneehart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Possessive Tom Riddle, Teenage Tom Riddle, sort of dark Hermione, tom riddle/hermione, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5750515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom returns to the orphanage during the summer before his seventh year, to find that there is a new resident. An interesting and curious resident, with frizzy hair and no memory of her life before coming to Wool's do to a terrible attack. A resident who can perform magic, though she has forgotten how. No matter. He can teach her. One Shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnivore

**Author's Note:**

> Brief descriptions of violence/ Sexual Situations. This is a completed story.

Disclaimer: All properties are owned by JK Rowling, and I receive no monetary compensation for this work of fiction.

Carnivore

She is Lost

The girl with the wild hair and lost eyes had been at Wool's for four months before Tom had met her, having been finishing his sixth year at Hogwarts when she was taken in. He had thought it curious when he heard that Mrs. Cole had taken on another charge, considering the fact that she was- to their estimations- anywhere from fifteen to seventeen years in age; far too old to have had any chance of being adopted, far too old to really be deserving of any pity. Space in the cramped and run down orphanage was scarce, and food was even scarcer, the effects of the muggle war tolling heavy on the supplies available to the public. Nearly everything was rationed, kindness included. 

The girl with the strange sounding name had earned the concern of Mrs. Cole, had been pathetic enough for the old caretaker to want to take her in, protect her. She was covered in grime and blood when the police officer discovered her, the orphans had whispered behind their hands. Was found huddled on the streets of London, bewildered and frightened, with nothing in her possession aside from the tattered clothes, and a curious necklace that had been shattered. She had no memory of who she was, or where she was from, whatever accident she had gotten into having robbed that of her, the same force that embedded the glass of her brass pendant into her chest, scarring the skin. She was brought to the gates of the orphanage after having seen a physician, the head injury she had sustained partially healed among the many other injuries.

'No one has claimed her.' 'Victim of the war.' 'Consistent with a great fall, and an assault.' 'Has nowhere to go.' 'Has no memory, terrible amnesia.'

Those were the words that she was marked with, and Mrs. Cole with a sigh had taken her in. Had cleared a room for her in a linen closet, set up a cot. She did not need a wardrobe anyway, as she had nothing to put in it. 

Tom had been back within the walls of the building for only a day when he had learned that she was regarded as a pariah of sorts among the orphans, that she was spoken of only under their breath. 'Strange,' they called her. 'Crazy.' They eyed her in a way that was familiar to Tom, as they had looked to him with the same gaze. Wide eyes filled with fear of the unknown, with confusion to what this being before them was, what they were capable of. 'She does things like Tom used to do. I don't trust her,' one of them had said when they did not see him around the corner, their tone repulsed and filled with hatred, dripping like acid. 

It took only three days into his return for him to see why, when he was startled from his sleep once more by screams, the walls undulating with her yells of pain. Grabbing hold of his wand, he followed the sound of her cries, thrusting open the door to the linen closet with every intention of silencing her. Three nights had gone by without sleep, three nights he had sat in his bed with the pillow over his ears as she wailed and thrashed from whatever nightmare or possession she was under. He was going to keep her quiet, the same way he had kept Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop silent.

The door flung open, and suddenly the screaming stopped, the girl sitting up straight in her bed with a gasp as she awoke, her honey brown eyes wide and searching for him in the darkness of the room. He had closed the door behind him, the click of the door as it settled in the frame and was locked wandlessly like a harbinger, and she stood at the noise.

“I'm growing very tired of your screams,” he said, his tone dangerously low, like a growl in his throat. His hand rose before him, the wand clutched tight in his grasp, only to feel a sharp pull from it, watching in awe as it was suddenly flung from his fingers. The wand collided with the wall behind her, bouncing off it and falling to the floor unceremoniously, rolling down the slightly uneven wooden planks. His nostrils flared, his brow twitched. Anger filled his chest like a well, a reservoir of it, and he took a step forward, his eyes narrowed at her. Before he could draw from it, could tap into the magic he had used so often as a child until he began channeling it through his wand, a great force hit him in the gut, the breath expelled from him as it did so. 

He was shoved back by invisible hands, his body roughly crashing into the shelves behind him. All at once they broke, though not through any physical means, and he stumbled to the floor, splintered wood and spare linens tumbling at his feet. The sound was deafening, and quickly followed by harried footsteps as various children and matrons ran to check on what had been the source. They banged on the door, voices calling for them to open it as it shook from the reverberations of their fists.

But he did not, instead leveling his eyes so that they met Hermione's, his anger replaced with interest. She was a witch then, whether or not she knew it, and the air sizzled and cracked with her magic, he could feel it pulsing through the air. It was suffocating, billowing around him like smoke from a fire. 

The door finally ripped open as he unlocked it, turning to look at the sea of faces in the threshold, Mrs. Cole rushing through them so as to look between him and Hermione, worriedly. “I heard her screaming so I came in here to see if everything was alright, but I tripped,” he lied, motioning to the mess surrounding him. 

He was told to return to his room, and he had done so, his wand carefully concealed in his sleeve, thinking back to the girl who wasn't just a girl. She was a witch, with untapped potential, with magic overfilling her and begging to be released and realized. Begging to be controlled. Perhaps this summer wouldn't be as drab or as dull as the others. 

She is a Witch

“Do you know what you are?” he asked the next day, blocking her passage through the hall with his body, his arms extended outward so that his fingertips just brushed against the walls. He had gotten no sleep again the night prior, even after she had revealed her magic to him and was quiet the rest of the night. He laid awake, thinking back to the heat of it all, of her magic engulfing him. Greedy of the power she certainly did not even know she possessed. 

She eyed him cautiously, pursing her lips together. It hadn't occurred to him that this was the first time they had actually spoken together. That he had never formally introduced himself, or even so much as said hello. He barely even knew her name, as she was only referred to as the strange girl who hardly spoke. He simply knew it was something unique. Like most magical names were. Surely, she was a pureblood who had strayed from her family? Had been attacked and harmed by an unknown being. Perhaps her memory loss wasn't even from the great fall she suffered. Perhaps she had been obliviated by a covetous wizard who wished to strip her of her magic.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said, trying to move past him, but he did not relent. 

“Last night, you attacked me. How?” 

She knitted her brows, crossing her arms over her chest. “You said it yourself, you tripped. What were you doing in my room anyway?” She was defensive and stubborn, was not fearful of him as the other children were, raising her chin as if to appear taller. More menacing. He only quirked a brow at it, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips.

“I lied. I do that often, you see. You shoved me though, I felt it.”

Having finally given up on trying to move past him, annoyed with his attentions, she turned around from him, walking back towards her room. He only followed her, eager to speak more with the witch, to coax out her magic. He had only ever dealt with witches and wizards inside Hogwarts, had never had the opportunity to encounter one outside of the castle. Had never had one seemingly placed at his doorstep, certainly not one like her, who exuded power. How had he not noticed it before? The way her hair swayed with it, frizzing from the crack of her magic. The light that shrouded her, the aura as her magic pulled into his, the two forces colliding as if to seek solace in it. 

“How could I have done that? I did not lay a hand on you, and Mrs. Cole won't believe you if you claim that to be the case,” she said, stepping into her room that was still in disarray. She dropped to her knees, grabbing a fistful of spare bed sheets from the pile on the floor. She began folding them as she spoke. “She warned me about you, that you would return from the boarding school you go to. You're Tom Riddle, and she said you're a monster.” 

He was not surprised at all that the matron had spoken of him to her- she seemed to take the girl under her wing. Stepping over her outstretched arms so that he was standing in front of her, he pressed his foot down on the sheet she was folding. She tugged at it fruitlessly before looking up at him, her eyes stormy with anger. “Leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you, Riddle.”

But he wanted everything to do with her. His waning and barely there interest in her upon hearing of her abrupt arrival had been reignited, brighter and more fervent than before. She hadn't just been a girl lost in the muggle war. He knew she had to have been attacked by someone, another witch or wizard for whatever strife they had between them. 

He wanted to know who she was, what she had been. He had never seen her at Hogwarts, and she had a local accent, so she must have been homeschooled. A practice typical of Pureblood families, particularly dark ones that aligned themselves with the belief that they were superior because of their untainted blood. Ones that did not want their children to be taught muggle sympathies from the likes of Dumbledore or other school officials. 

“You can make things happen around you, I know. You can move things, and control them. I can too,” he said, smirking when her look of anger turned to one of poorly concealed fascination, her pink lips parting. “You may have forgotten your magic, but it did not forget you.”

She furrowed her brow, squinting at him. “Magic?”

With a flourish of his wrist, the sheets pulled themselves into the air, and she gasped, jumping back from them as they folded themselves before neatly settling into piles. The one below his foot wriggled and twisted, his weight pinning the corner down to the floor as the opposite end contorted in the air. He chuckled, stepping back so that it too could be stored away. The corners clasped together of their own will before joining one of the other stacks of sheets, revealing Hermione's startled face, her jaw slacked open. 

“How...” she started, looking from him to the towers of linen beside her and back again, her expression softening. “You can do magic?” The phrase was whispered, as though she thought speaking too loudly might disrupt it, shatter the magic she had seen like an illusion gone to soon. 

He nodded, smirking as he knelt before her. “You can, too. You did last night.”

She seemed to ponder this, pinching her lips together as her fingers entwined in her lap, nervously twisting her knuckles. Softly, she asked, “Can you show me how to control it, then?”

Her name was Hermione, he remembered. Named after the Goddess. Daughter to Helen of Troy, whose face launched a thousand ships.

She is Strong

He gave her his old text books, and she devoured them as though she fed on knowledge. She a carnivore, they tender flesh to be consumed. She read them with a passion and a thirst that had matched his own, and within weeks she had gone through them all, reading and rereading them as she took careful organized notes. He told her stories of the magical world, of Hogwarts, that only made her yearn for more, her brown eyes bright with the need to learn and discover. 

His suspicions that she was once a fully trained witch seemed correct, as when he began to teach her the practical use of knowledge- showed her how to bottle it and control it at her will- she responded with a naturalness. She had long since been familiar with her magic, and he merely reunited the two. She could easily call books to her from the shelves of the library, and then slide them back without error. She could write notes without once touching the pen. 

There came a time where he even, reluctantly yet still of his own volition, allowed her to practice formal spells with the use of his wand. His curiosity had bested his selfish need to keep his own wand to himself, and he had watched as she used it to perform simple, elementary spells. The wand resisted her, at first, and did not entirely cooperate with her commands. Yet she still succeeded, if not at her first attempt than her second, and soon they were moving onto harder spells, him eager to see just how far her magical education had gone before she had been obliviated. He wondered what she could do with a wand of her own.

“I'll have to take a trip to Diagon Alley, to get my supplies for my final year at Hogwarts. I can take you with me, and maybe we can get you a wand,” he had offered one afternoon, when he sat stretched out on his bed, her at the foot of it as she held his wand out over a flame, turning it all colors of the spectrum. 

She looked to him, the excitement he saw in her eyes flickering out rather quickly as she chewed her lip, suddenly bashful. After a moment, she whispered, “I haven't any money. All I had on me when I was found was clothes which have since been tossed and a broken necklace.”

He frowned. He had forgotten that, having lost himself in the companionship of the girl. He was never one to seek out company, particularly not in the orphanage, where he strove to keep to himself for the summer months. But the melancholy and bitterness at having returned to such an awful place had been pushed away when he learned she was like him, when he began to fill his days surrounded by magic and watching the witch bloom before him. Watched her turn from a useless muggle to a great sorceress in the manner of weeks. He had been so distracted by her unending amazement at his abilities, charming her until he decided what he would do with her, that he had forgotten her mysterious past. Her humble beginnings. 

“Why haven't you tossed it yet?”

She shrugged, her cheeks reddening as though embarrassed at having been caught holding on to rubbish. “I had hoped maybe one day it will help me remember,” she said, digging her hands into her pocket. She pulled them out, her fingers wrapped around a tarnished gold chain. It was long and tangled, and she swore as she tried to untwist it, her fingernails gripping under the chainlinks and catching on them.

He chuckled. “Are you a witch or not?” he said mockingly, watching as her cheeks turned a deeper shade of maroon, her eyes hardening towards him. Settling it down in her lap, she hovered her hands over it, concentrating her magic on righting the kinks in it. With the heavy sounds of metal clinking together, the necklace contorted several times before resting across her thighs, straightened. 

She reached out to grasp it, but he stopped her, sitting up properly as he grabbed hold of her wrist and held it away. He had recognized it immediately, the curved bands reflecting brilliantly from the magenta flame floating just above, casting an orange glow over it. There were two in total, and they were moveable, independent from the center of it where it was a flat sheet of metal with the silhouettes of stars dotted over it. Two empty curves divided it in half where there should have been an hourglass. It was a time turner, an object that was exceedingly difficult to get possession of, and even more exceedingly dangerous if tampered with. 

His fingers ghosted over the edge of it, experimentally twisting the bands around it as she watched with interest, her head leaning forward. “It had a glass part, right there, I think,” she said as he touched over the holding for the hourglass. “I don't know what it was, but there was glass in my chest.” She brought her hand up, pressing it between her breasts and then blushing, returning the hand to her side. “Do you know? Is it...is it magic?”

He paused, his dark eyes meeting hers for a second before he shook his head, feigning a look of sympathy. “I've never seen anything like it before,” he lied, moving back so that he was once more leaning against his pillows, his eyes not straying from the device. Time travel was incredibly unstable, and it was only really possible within only a block of several hours to his knowledge. He did not think she would find any answers to her past with that, but he still wanted to keep the information guarded. 

There were several ideal aspects regarding his taking her under his tutelage, one of them being that he could keep her as in the dark as he wanted in terms of subjects he felt less favorable to. What had originally begun as an attempt to pass the summer and to indulge his interest had turned into a calculation on his part, considering what to do with her now that he had stoked the flames of her power. He wanted her, wanted to add her to the little group of followers he had collected back within the castle. But he was not sure of how to proceed, cautious to reintroduce her to the magical world for fear she might want to disassociate with him when she learned of his plans for his future. What would be the point in training her if she were to only stray from his side, and perhaps right into the open arms of the very people who would oppose him? It was better to try to keep her cut off, to be the only link she had for now until he was certain she would be his.

He wanted her to be his.

She Thinks he is a Bully

“It isn't funny, Tom!” she said, crossing her arms over her chest as he pursed his lips, each giving the other a challenging gaze. He had finally decided to show her another talent of his, one that she could not- and would not- be able to replicate. The snake sat coiled at his feet, his yellow scales bright against the drab gray of Tom's uniform. She had been impressed with it, with his ability to speak with the serpent. He had asked it questions for her, had requested it dance and move about to her delight, her laugh peeling like a bell in the small courtyard.

It wasn't until he suggested asking the snake to hide in the toy chest in the parlor that she had turned against him, admonishing him for being cruel and mean. “What did the children do to you that you want to scare them so badly?” she asked, incredulously.

He scoffed, turning his voice threatening as he said, “They same thing they've done to you.” He knew full well that they had been awful to her before his arrival, had taunted her and shunned her from their interactions. One had even bumped into her, sending her down a flight of stairs. They had only ended their torment when he offered her his friendship, and the children, frightened of him, left her in peace.

She did not like that, and stormed away from him in a huff.

She is Forgiving

By supper time the next evening, she had ceased ignoring him for his oversight, entering his room and settling beside him on the bed with a book of her own. They read in silence into the later hours of the night, neither one addressing the other. He found her companionship surprisingly enjoyable, something that had shocked him when he first came to the conclusion. They would debate often, as she was always ready to express her opinions on spells or potions even if she had just learned of it moments before. He found those debates pleasurable, her intellect adaptable and matching his own. And while he would normally not mind sitting with her in silence, he found this one unbearable. Stifling. 

Just when he thought he could not take it anymore, she settled the book down with a sigh and said, “Surely, there has to be a better use of the wolfsbane root than this. It has so many unexplored properties, and I think it is being terribly under utilized.” 

He let out a sharp breath of air, smirking before he countered her with, “It's poisonous to most other ingredients. There is hardly much that can be done with it as a result.”

And she was no longer angry with him. Or at least, too lonely to care.

She is Troubled

“I missed you,” she said, anxiously pulling on the sleeves of her jumper, her expression becoming stern as she added, “You never told me you would be leaving.” She was strange like that, he thought. She would be overly saccharine one moment, sweet like chocolate, yet she could be just as bitter in the next instant. Or even the same instant, her hands balling at her fist indignantly, raising her chin the way she did when she attempted to be challenging. It must be exhausting, to feel such different emotions all at once. How did one keep track of their thoughts when one side was begging you to scream and hurt and the other was telling you to rejoice?

“I didn't think you would notice,” he answered, and it wasn't a lie. He had been used to coming and going as he pleased, Mrs. Cole none to eager to stop him when he left the premises. Probably on the hopes that he wouldn't come back. No one had ever questioned him, no one had ever cared what business he was involved in so long as it wasn't their own.

His tone must have been harsh, because she pursed her lips, her thin face becoming thinner as she sucked in her cheeks. “You don't think of others often, do you?” It wasn't a question, even though she posed it as such, and he narrowed his eyes at her, a pressure settling on his chest. She was angering him, and he had already had a long night, his bones achy and weary with the need to rest. With a scoff, he brushed past her, his shoulder hitting hers as he headed for his room. He raised a hand to his temples when he heard her follow in step behind him, a migraine wrapping tightly like a band over his head, the world painfully bright and dizzying.

“Don't you care that I was worried?” she said, sounding a curious mixture of ire and dread, as though she were pleading with him to acknowledge her plight.

Entering his room, he continued to ignore her, laying down on his bed without so much of kicking his shoes off. He wanted to shower, rid himself of the layer of sweat that was coating his brow and his back. But he was too drained, coming down from the high of performing dark magic.

It was euphoric, casting such curses that he had previously only fantasized of. To torture on such an insidious level, to latch onto the nerve endings of another being and manipulate them in a way that caused pain on a higher level. Pain that made the bridge between life and death nebulous. To kill, swiftly and cleanly. Lifting his head up, he peered over to where she still stood, her fists on her hips as she waited for an explanation. Would she still have been worried- still missed him- if she knew he had spent the night killing his father and grandparents?

He didn't think he would. She was disgustingly moral, and they frequently clashed heads in that regard. That was still something he had been working on, trying to ever so slightly turn her against others, to teach her that there was no reason to care about the well being of others if they did not reciprocate.

Yet, she did care about his well being, so by his own reasoning, should he not care about hers?

Sighing, he moved so that he was balanced on his side, facing her. “Look, I'm not used to having anyone even notice when I am not around here. I didn't think you would be upset,” he ground out.

She did not seem moved by his words though, her lips only tightening so that they turned near white. “That isn't an apology.”

He rolled his eyes, reaching a hand out. “Just come here. I'm tired,” he said. She hesitated, looking to his long, tapered fingers and to his face before moving forward, tentatively sitting beside him. Then she laid down, clasping her hands tightly to her sides as if uncomfortable with the intimacy, chewing her lip.

She was silent for some time, and Tom had almost fallen asleep, forgetting entirely about her presence despite the fact that he was pressed into her, the mattress dipping with her weight. “Before you came here, everyone was rude and mean to me, no one wanted to speak with me. I did not know why or what I had done, but I felt terribly alone. I don't remember if I had a family to speak of, but I felt their absence all the same. You're the only one who has made me feel less out of a place, and I was afraid that if you didn't come back I would lose that feeling and be alone again. Since spending time with you, I haven't had any of my nightmares either,” she said, her voice small, and he opened an eye to look at her. Her cheeks were wet with silent tears, bright in the light that streamed in through the window. 

“Nightmares?”

She nodded, reaching a hand up to wipe her eyes dry when she realized he was awake and watching her. “I don't know why or what they're of, or who the people in them are. But, they're rather unpleasant.” Perhaps they could be the key to determining her origin? Was it possible her memories were trying to break free from the prison the memory charm had locked them in through her subconscious, calling to her in slumber?

Wrapping an arm around her, he pulled her close into him, nestling her head under his chin so that her errant strays of hair tickled his neck. He shushed her softly, smirking when she melted against him, wrapped her own thin arms tight around his waist. “Tell me all about them, Love,” he asked, his voice a purr. And she did, weaving ghastly tales of torture and pain, of hopelessness and misery. Werewolves, trolls, and spiders larger than three men put together. 

She spoke until her voice become thin and airy, more distant as she was slowly pulled into sleep from the comfort of his embrace. She tucked her head more firmly into the crook of his neck, her breath hot on his skin, and he lazily ran a hand up and down her back in thought. If any of her nightmares were forgotten memories trying to resurface, perhaps it was best if she did not remember anything from her life before.

Besides, he was her life now. And he would not let anyone harm this marvelous little witch he had stitched back together in the span of only six weeks. Regardless of her past, he was her future, and he would ensure she never felt so powerless again.

She is Presented a Gift

“Consider it a going away gift, something to remember me by while I'm gone,” he said, handing her the long and narrow box that was wrapped expertly in silver foil paper, a large green ribbon tied around the width of it. She smiled as she accepted it, thanking him several times over. He did not give gifts, and had been at a lost really of how to even go about wrapping one. She seemed to sense this, a bright and earnest gratefulness glowing in her eyes as she carefully pulled the ribbon from it, holding it out to him.

“Slytherin colors?” she asked, and he only smirked in response. He had been certain to regal her with as many stories of his House as possible, as well as the noble founder Salazar Slytherin, his ancestor. By far his greatest success to date had been getting her to agree that perhaps the ancient wizard had been correct in his belief that only Purebloods should be allowed access to Hogwarts. 'If the muggleborns are as disastrous at magic as you say, surely it must hinder lessons for those more adept?' she had said, and he could feel the a warmth in the pit of his stomach when she said this. 

She tossed the silver wrapping paper to the side, her hands settling on either side of the box as she lifted it up, her eyes growing wide. “Tom!” she gasped. He enjoyed the way his name sounded on her lips, like the utterance of a confession. Like a sin that sat in her mouth. She looked up to him, the largest smile he had seen yet on her as she pulled the wand from the velvet lining, laying it flat in her palm. “It's mine?” she asked, as if in disbelief that he had bestowed upon her such a miraculous gift.

The gift of magic.

It had been easy enough, to find the one that felt most like her, the wand that drew into his own magic the way hers did. Unicorn hair, the wandmaker had said, and he thought it seemed fitting. She was graceful and ethereal, yet none too easy to tame. He did not suspect he ever would fully tame her, but he supposed it wouldn't be quite as fun that way. Part of what he liked about her was the fire that seemed to burn bright within her, the way she would clash with him fiercely about something only to return to him when her anger had finally abated. 

“Well, I'll be needing mine for school and it would be a shame for you to not practice,” he said, though he was lying if he claimed it to be a selfless act. He wanted to see how much she would grow when he was away, what she would do with the ten months out from under his thumb. He planned on taking her with him after he graduated, so that they could learn together. Discover what dark magic existed beyond the books he found in the restricted section. 

Suddenly, her arms were wrapped around him, her body pressed tight against his own as she hugged him so forcefully he had to hold a hand out behind him to stop himself falling over. The other he used to hold her closer. “I expect you to continue your studies. I will be very disappointed if I return to collect you in June and you can't perform any spell I request of you,” he said, feeling her head nod eagerly against his shoulder. 

Then she stopped, pulling back from him with a curious look on her face. “Collect me?”

He reached out, cupping her chin in between his thumb and forefinger. “Yes. I have many plans for my future, and I think I'd like you by my side for them. We can change the world together, you and I,” he said. “Would you like to travel with me, Hermione? Do some research on our own?”

She fell back into his arms, hugging him tight. “Of course! Where else would I go?” That was the beauty of it all. She was just alone as he was.

She Falls for the Monster

“June isn't too far off, and I'll return before you know it. Besides, we can write,” Tom told her as the two magically packed his belongings into his trunk. Tomorrow he would leave her for Hogwarts, though he promised to take her to King's Cross with him so she could at least view Platform 9 ¾. It was easy enough to forget that while he had spent the summer telling her of everything he could about their world, she had never actually gotten the opportunity to see it. At least not before she had been obliviated. He told her of that too, that the life and memory she had lost was the result of someone attacking her, trying to wipe her mind clear of anything it could. It had ignited something within her, something he enjoyed. She wanted revenge, to find the one who had condemned her to start her life back from the beginning. To leave her for dead. And he continued to coax it, promising her in between his lies and embraces that he would help her to find him. She would get her revenge.

“That will be exciting,” she said with a small grin. “To get my first owl. Do I have to give it anything?” 

He shrugged. “They like treats. I would keep some in your room. You don't have to, but they won't be entirely prompt otherwise.” He closed the lid of his trunk, looking up at her from where she sat on his bed, her arms wrapped around her legs as her head rested on her knees. It had been a somewhat disturbing realization, to discover that he would in fact miss her. He had never before felt tied to anyone, and it was somewhat disconcerting. Would it be a hindrance to be worried about this witch? To feel a drive to protect her? 

No, he did not think it would. He had, after all, offered protection and salvation to his small following. Why would she be any different? Besides, once his legion grew, she would be protected not just by him, but those who worshiped him as their Lord, she as their Lady. Surely, there would be no safer place for her than at his side. And he was eager to have her reach her full potential, to see her fight against another besides himself. That was the first thing they had done with their respective wands was duel. He had bested her quite easily at first, but she steadily grew, holding her own better and better with each fight. She was still not to his level, but he knew that it was only a matter of time. 

Standing, he moved across the empty room to join her on the bed, looking around with relief. This would be the last night he spent within these walls, the last night he would be a resident of Wool's Orphanage. His room had been stripped of nothing but the furniture it came with, a bare desk and chair, a lone wardrobe without contents. In the morning, he would peel off the bed sheets and thin blanket so that it would be prepared for the next ward. It was no longer his prison. 

“Tom,” she said quietly, so quietly he almost didn't hear her. She was chewing on her lip, nervously tugging on her fingers. “You...you promise you won't leave me here? That you'll come back for me? I know I must sound silly, but...I really don't know what else there is for me. And I'm afraid that Mrs. Cole will not keep me for as long as it takes to figure it out if I'm not to leave with you.” It was true, Mrs. Cole's soft spot for the girl had turned cold and bitter after she began consorting regularly with Tom. Guilty by association, it seemed.

“I promise, Hermione,” he said. Then, after a moment of thought, he added, “Here.” He held out his left hand, pulling the ring from his middle finger. He wasn't even certain she would want it, it was ugly and clumsy with a bent golden band and large black stone that barely fit into the setting. Yet, he held it out to her still, smirking when her eyes looked to it as she bit her lip, gingerly reaching out for it. “It's a family heirloom. You can keep it until I get back,” he said as she slowly pushed it onto her finger, moving it so that the stone reflected the dim light of the room. It was too large, but before he could reach for his own wand to adjust it for her, she had already done so, and he smirked in his appraisal. He didn't want her to keep it, it was his after all. But he could part with it for ten months if he needed to. 

She moved up towards him in the bed, smiling shyly as she straddled his lap. He concealed his surprised as quickly as he could before settling his hands on her hips a rare smile pulling on his lips. She lowered her head to his, her lips hovering just over his before she finally pressed them down, uncertain at first as she offered soft pecks. But she quickly grew more passionate, earnestly kissing him as she wrapped her arms around his neck, providing herself with better leverage. And he returned with the same fervor, nipping her bottom lip to illicit sweet and delicate moans that were gasped into his mouth. He dug his nails into her hips, pulling her as close as he could as he pulled away from her, breathless.

He turned his attention to her neck, raking his teeth over the sensitive skin in between the surprisingly tender kisses he left along the curve of it. She groaned loudly at the sensation, arching her back encouragingly. His fumbling hands quickly moved up from her hips, grabbing hold of the hem to her jumper before he pulled it up and over her head. Returning his lips to hers once more as he tossed it aside, bringing his attention to the buttons of her blouse. He made quick work of it, pushing it from her shoulders before turning his eyes to her, instantly stilling.

A large scar ran up her torso, starting at just above her right breast and snaking down the valley of her stomach, finally coming to a stop at her left hip. It was a hideous line of knotted flesh, clumped into a healed welt of what was once a terrible and awful injury. The flesh itself was pale in comparison to her otherwise fair complexion, a ghastly white, and it wasn't until he felt her slide away from him that he realized he had made her uncomfortable. Perhaps self conscious.

He grabbed hold of her upper arms, hoisting her back up and holding her in place as he sobered, pursing his lips. “You don't remember where this is from, do you?”

Solemnly, she shook her head, her frizzy and unmanageable curls bouncing with it. “No. The physician who treated me said it was old though. I'm sorry, I-”

But he silenced her, tapping the tip of his finger to her lips before bringing it down to the scar in question, running it over the raised and puckered skin. “Someone did this to you. And they deserved to be punished for it. During our travels, we will try to help you recall who it was, and we will find him,” he said, his tone dark and businesslike.

She swallowed, her eyes flitting around the room nervously. “You...you mean kill him, don't you?” she asked quietly, not meeting his eyes as she suddenly wrapped her arms over her bare torso, a shiver sweeping through her spine.

He was quiet, his breathing labored still from the high of her mouth on his own, of the taste of her skin. For perhaps the first time in his life, he did not know what to say. There was no clever way he could turn this around, no amount of charm he could use to redeem himself if she thought it despicable that he did indeed mean to kill whoever had harmed her. But there wasn't entirely much of a purpose now in trying to convince her that he had a heart when he did not. She would have to learn, eventually, that he had killed, and would kill again. For his right to hold power, to be respected and never made a victim.

He had hoped that, by the time she would become privy to this, he had already isolated her from the world she belonged in, had tainted her enough that she would not stray. He had spent the summer feeding her false information, hoping that in doing so she would become loyal to him and he alone. That she would become his. 

Licking his lips, he said, “Do not think of it like that. Think of it as taking back what he stole from you.” When she turned to him with curious eyes, her brow knitted, he added, “He took away your sense of security, your innocence. He made you feel powerless and weak, marked and soiled goods. You do not remember who or why or how, but every day you see the scar and the feelings are renewed, perhaps even harsher as there is no context to put your mind at ease. You see it and you wonder why someone would hurt you this way, what you had done to deserve it. Don't you?” he asked. She looked away from him, worrying her bottom lip roughly between her teeth. “It's not taking away his life, it's giving you back your own. Don't you want to stop hating yourself every time you see your reflection? Start seeing it as a battle scar instead of a mark to remind you that someone once made you hurt?”

She did not look at him, but he could still see the confusion in her eyes, see them darken with thought and pain. He could practically feel her slipping between his fingers. All of the work he had poured into her, the hours he slaved away as though a sculptor forming a piece in his own image, only to have it tumble and turn to chips and clouds of dust. He gripped tighter onto her, sitting up suddenly and rolling her over so that she was laying down and he was over her, his hands splayed on the mattress on either side of her. She gasped as he did so, startled by the action before looking up to him.

“Hermione, don't be afraid. Not of me or yourself. I will always protect, I will always be there for you. Would you truly want to go back to being alone? Are you so afraid of yielding power that you would rather spend your days with no one beside you?” he asked, smirking when her expression turned sharp, her eyes narrowed.

She hissed at him, “I am not afraid of power. I just don't want to kill.”

He sighed, knowing that it would only spark yet another fight between them. He would win, in the end, but for now she would only become frustrated with him if he tried to change her mind. She would spend the next ten months alone, and if the orphans were weary of her before they certainly would be frightened of her now. No one would reach out to her, knowing that she had been so close to him, and she wouldn't hesitate to join him after the unending solitude. After she realized that as an orphan with no ties to the community and no one to otherwise care for her, there was little option for her. Poverty, menial jobs for awful wages and inhuman conditions. Prostitution. 

Anyone would trade it all, in the favor of respect. Of power. Of standing at the top of the world as the others bowed down before you. She didn't need to kill, he decided. He would do it for her.

Lowering his lips to hers, he kissed her, his mouth moving along her still one for some time before she tentatively kissed back, slowly sliding her tongue along his when he opened up to her. One hand wove into her hair, entangling itself within the mass of her curls and knots, as the other slid up and down her body, familiarizing himself with the textures and feeling of her beneath him. Her skin was warm, pleasantly warm. A beacon of heat in the damp and sterile room and he pressed into her greedily, his hands frantically pulling her skirt down as her own fingers tugged at the front of his slacks, moaning with a need that made his head dizzy, cloudy and full. 

Once she lay before him, naked and trembling from the slight chill to the room that never seemed to fade even in the warmer days, he sat up, pulling his own garments off and tossing them to the floor before laying down with her. He propped himself up with one hand as the other dove to the apex of her thighs, smirking as she let out a sharp breath at the sensation, her body jerking. His fingers found her center, and he eagerly slid them into her folds, twisting within her. Each touch evoked a different sound, a different moan. 

He found that she made an entire range of delightful sounds, from the softest and most innocent mews to the more guttural moans that came from deep within her throat. And he vowed to memorize the keystroke to each one, to remember exactly where he had to touch for her to make that breathy sound, high pitched and pleading. To remember exactly how hard he bit down on her shoulder, lapping his tongue over the skin, to evoke the gasp that turned into a groan. 

But the greatest sound she made came after he had finally entered her, his own groans joining hers as he thrust within her, overwhelmed by all the sensations. The feeling of her wrapped around him, the smell of her skin and her sex hanging in the air. Of her slick and fevered skin on his own, the sweet taste of her mouth. Like apples, ripe and juicy and perfectly tart so that it snapped on the tongue. It was too much, and when she moaned out his name, the letters and sounds of it separated as she stammered through it over her pleasure, he could no longer hold back.

He had always hated his common muggle name, but it sounded so delectable on her lips.

She is Also a Monster

It was mid January now, and Hermione thought that Mrs. Cole had been wrong along about Tom Riddle. He was not a monster, she decided. In fact, if anything he was surrounded by monsters, the lone human in a world of demons. He did not pretend, as others did, to care when he did not. To sympathize when he did not. To love when he did not. He simply was what he wanted to be, not what others expected him to be so as to better fit him in their strict social constructs of what made someone pleasant to be around. But false smiles and well wishes were not pleasant when they were not genuine, and that was the beauty of Tom Riddle. She knew that when he did offer her a rare smile, or sent her letters saying that he did indeed miss her and looked forward to their reunion, that it was true. He would not continue correspondence with her if he did not feel that way, as Tom Riddle simply did not correspond with people he didn't wish to just because he thought it polite. He would not have vowed his love of her if he did not love her, because Tom Riddle did not ever express love to another, and had no reason to start.

He was a terribly, frighteningly, real being, in a world that was tragically false.

How long she lived for, she did not know, because as far as she was concerned she had only been alive for a year. In fact, it was her birthday, the anniversary of the day she regained consciousness in the hospital on the blustery evening. The day she was reborn, from her old, forgotten life into the new. So, that being said, in that year that she lived in this world, she had already learned that people were insincere. You were not a good person simply because you said hello to a stranger. You were not a good person simply because you did not actively harm another.

You were a good person if you went beyond the hello, to offer your friendship to that stranger. You were a good person if you protected others, if you fought fiercely for those you loved or those who could. And Tom had been that person when others would not. 

Mrs. Cole had felt nothing but pity for her, her heart breaking as Hermione limped through the door with the police officer a year ago. Mrs. Cole liked Hermione until she didn't, as the girl was only valued if she did not spend her time with Riddle, whom the matron distrusted. She did not really like Hermione, she only thought she did. 

The orphans were not kind to Hermione, calling her strange and running from her after she awoke the ward she slept on her with her screams. When she threw the door from its hinges, shattered several windows. At the time she did not know it was magic that made her do this, that she had a specialness within her begging to be let loose. But the orphans took it as a sign that she was something akin to the dirt beneath their shoe, that she was anything but extraordinary. And she almost began to believe them, until Tom arrived. Handsome and stoic Tom, who brought to her the world she truly belonged to, the world that someone had rudely cast her from.

She knew that if she ever did regain her memories and found the man who did this to her, she would not kill him. She didn't have it in her to take someone's life. Their final breath. But that certainly didn't mean that her attacked should be allowed to get away with it. After all, he seemed to have had no problem with taking her life, her breath. He tried to scrub her from this earth, but she was stronger than he gave credit for. She would not vanish simply because he told her to. 

She wouldn't kill him, but she wouldn't stop Tom from taking her revenge for her. 

Her footsteps crunched through the snow as she wandered through the courtyard, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. In one hand, she had her fingers wrapped tightly around her wand, a reassurance that she would never be stripped of her power again. And in the other, she had the unopened letter from Tom, the one she had received earlier that day when the golden barn owl flew to her window.

She used to keep the strange necklace she had been wearing during her rebirth in her pockets, but she no longer had it in her possession. She had given it to him as they stood outside the train to Hogwarts, his curiously stony faced friends watching from a distance. She did not think it fair that he give her not one, but two gifts for her to cherish in their time away, and she wanted to impart something of her own to him. She did not have much however, and it was the best she could do. 

She came to the one of the benches sporadically placed in the area, wiping the snow from the seat before she settled down onto it, pulling the letter out. This had been her preferred spot for reading them, as well as her preferred spot in general. It was secluded, nestled in between some snow laden bushes, and separate from the rest of garden. If one could call it such. There were looming trees above her, dead with winter's frost, and there was a poorly maintained path weaving around it, the flagstone steps broken. But there were no windows looking down to it, and it had been the place where she and Tom had practiced their magic together.

Tearing the envelope, she pulled the letter out from within, unfolding the parchment and smiling as she was met with the familiar handwriting.

She did not get far into it however, as the parchment was promptly ripped from her grasp. One of the orphans, Billy Stubbs- a sandy blond haired boy who she knew to be several years younger than Tom- stood in front of her, holding her letter in his hands and scoffing as he looked at the signature line. 

“Figures you and Riddle would be mailing each other. Planning an assassination together are you?” he asked mockingly, holding the letter out of reach as Hermione reached for it, her fingers falling just short of it. 

“Give it here. It's mine,” she growled, taking another step closer and trying once more to retrieve it. 

He sneered at her. “Why should I? I don't have to listen to you, now that he's not here to watch over you. You may be strange like him, but you've got no bite to your bark,” he taunted, storming off in the opposite direction as he held the paper out before him, laughing derisively. “I'd love to see what sort of romantic that psychopath is.” 

She pursed her lips, producing her wand from her pocket. It had taken time for her to get used to a wand of her own, especially since it obeyed her so easily, unlike Tom's. But now, it had become a part of her, an extension of her magic and her limb. It was just as much her as her hair or her eyes, and she did not hesitate to bury the tip of it sharply under Billy's chin, so deep that it it was no longer visible from the indent it made on his flesh.

He looked fearful, blue eyes turning icy with terror and confusion, and she almost considered withdrawing herself, apologizing for her aggressive response. But she did not, instead rooting herself firmly to the ground. If he was so convinced that she had no bite, than wasn't it her duty to prove otherwise? Furthermore, why should she apologize? He had been nasty to her since Tom had left, had taken delight in calling her names and spurning rumors to the other orphans about her. That she was a Nazi who was hiding from the Allied forces. That she was a whore who had run into trouble and pretended to be some amnesia patient with nowhere to go to spare herself.

He had spent months demeaning her, dehumanizing her for no reason than she was different. He had tried to make her powerless with his cruel words, and just as Tom had said, it was her choice of whether or not to let him whittle her down.

“You may not be afraid of me the way you are of Tom, but I assure you, you should be,” she said, doing her best to imitate the wizard when he spoke in that silky deep voice, the dangerous one that was lower than his regular voice. It was the voice he used when he was acting as a Dark Lord. “He taught me everything I know,” she said, jabbing the wand in further.

Billy flinched, hissing in pain. “You're bloody crazy. The both of you,” he said, jerking away from after he seemed to regain his senses, his confusion ebbing away as he staggered backward. 

“You shouldn't have taken my letter,” she said, holding her wand out before her as she muttered a curse she had seen only moments earlier in one of Tom's old books, one that she had been dying to try. Her form was shaking and uncertain- she had never really used her magic on anyone other than Tom, and that had been different, it was an agreed upon duel. Yet the spell still pulled through, a streak of blue lightening rocketing towards the boy, slicing through the air with smoke. The spell collided into him, dragging him several meters through the air before depositing him in the snow, his screams punctuating his fall. His body contorted on the ground, twisting into garish and grotesque angles as his body was shaken with the tremors of it. The air sizzled at having been cut in half, the smell of burning skin and wool pungent, and she flared her nostrils to it, grimacing. 

She had to stop herself from running to his side, from checking to see if he was alright. It had been barbarous of her to hurt him, but it was because he had been so to begin with. It was a matter of reciprocation, and she would not apologize for returning the favor. She forced herself to raise her chin at him, hoping she did not shake too visibly, the tingling of dark magic coursing through her veins and alleviating some of the anxiety she felt. It had a calming effect, a high that was induced from giving into your most animalistic urge to harm. She could easily see how one might become addicted to it, the relief blossoming in her chest as though she had expelled a great deal of pressure.

“Accio letter,” she called, and the parchment fluttered through the air and into her awaiting palm. Her gloved fingers curled over it, and she made her way over to the gasping huddle on the ground that was Billy, looking at him curiously. “I didn't want to do that, really. But you seem to mistake me for being someone you can bully without suffering repercussions.” 

Her voice wavered, and she paused in her speech, clearing her throat. Once more donning the impression of Tom's menacing tone, she began, “I will only be here for five more months, at which time I will leave with Tom. You will never see either one of us again. For those five months, I expect you to treat me with the proper respect you should give a lady. I will not wish ill on you if you do not speak it of me. However, if you can't seem to stay away from me or keep my name from your mouth, you'll find that there is far worse that I am capable of. Lightning will seem like a kiss to what I will do should you cross me again, or speak of this to anyone.” She stood then, raising a brow as Billy stared at her, slack jawed, too afraid to blink as he strained his eyes to remain focused on her. “Understood?” she asked, impatiently.

He nodded hastily, drawing himself up even as he gasped in pain, clutching tightly onto his stomach. He took off from her, a slow waddle, and she watched him go, her entire body feeling weightless. He would not tell anyone what had occurred between them, and even if he did, she had learned enough from Tom to know how to spin a pretty tale. To convincingly claim that Billy had gone into a terrible fit, had been frantic and frightening. He was paranoid, and thought I wished to harm him. I only wanted to help, I felt so sorry for him. It must be frightening to think someone wants to hurt you, and to see and hear things that aren't there. There would be no physical evidence left behind from her spell, no proof to support his claims that she had attacked him. She thought she could even manage a fake tear or two, just to be convincing. There was something to be said about being an hysterical woman.

Sitting back down on the bench, she smoothed out the wrinkles in her letter, finally able to read the words in peace. His words were loving, though perhaps only to her. She did not imagine others could read the letter and see the same endearment within the sentences that she did. But Tom was different, he did not feel or express love in a flowery sort of way. There were no sonnets, no comparison to a summer's day. His love was raw and imperfect, like a precious gem before it was cut for jewelry. He did not hide behind anything, he did not make broad claims and cliched promises. 

His promises were of a future together where no one would question their power, where no one would belittle them. Where he lead her through the world so that an army of men fell at her feet, where he would rule, with her beside him. It was not a delusion of grandeur, nor a metaphor for a simple and ordinary marriage.

They were anything but ordinary, and so would be their union. It only seemed fitting. Though she did hope he would consider changing the name he had chosen for himself. It felt awful in her mouth, clunky and like poison. It left a metallic taste on her tongue that was reminiscent of blood. Made her heart rate accelerate and her adrenaline rush for no discernible reason. No, she didn't like the name Lord Voldemort at all., though she couldn't quite recall why.

Carnivore

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr for information on my stories, sneak peaks, answers to any questions, and to even make fic requests. I love writing, and will take anything you throw at me. My tumblr username is ReneeHartblog Thank you for taking the time to read this, and please review!


End file.
